The Throat

When Alan had retreated from the door, I said, 'You want to kill him. Everything else is just window dressing.'

'How bad is that, as a last resort? It's probably the only safe way to deal with the guy.' He waited for me to see the force of this. 'I mean, there's no doubt in your mind that he's Bachelor, is there?'

'No,' I said.

'He murdered my wife. And Grant Hoffman. He wants to murder you, and after that he wants to murder me. How concerned are you about the civil rights of a guy like that?'

'Two more!' Alan bawled through the window. 'Total of six dead! Ten million dollars in damage!'

'I won't con you,' John said. 'I think it's a lot more likely that Fontaine will wind up dead than on trial.'

'I do, too,' I said. 'You better make sure you know what you're doing.'

'It's my life too.' John held out his hand, and when I took it, I felt my uneasiness double on itself.

Hovering near the sink when we came back inside, Alan looked at our faces for clues to what had been decided. He had shucked the suit jacket, and parts of his pajama top had worked their way out of his trousers. 'You get things straightened out?'

'I'll think about it,' John said.

'Okay!' Alan boomed, taking this as surrender. 'That's all I wanted to hear, kiddo.' He beamed at John. 'This calls for a celebration, what d'ya say?'

'Help yourself, please.' John waved his hand at the evidence that Alan had already been helping himself. A scotch bottle and a glass with slivers of ice floating in dark brown liquid stood on the counter. Alan poured more whiskey into the glass and turned again to John. 'Come on, join me, otherwise it's not a celebration.'

John went into the living room, and I looked at my watch. It was about eleven-thirty. I hoped John was going to have sense enough to keep sober. Alan gripped me by the shoulder. 'God bless you, boy.' He pulled another glass from the shelf and splashed whiskey into it. 'It's not a celebration unless you join in.'

John was going to lead Alan on until I left town, and then he'd refuse the chair. That would be the end of it. I felt as though I'd just assented to a second murder. When John returned, he raised his eyebrows at the drink before me and then smiled. 'Something to calm the nerves.'

Alan clinked glasses with John, then with me. 'I feel better than I have all day.'

'Cheers,' John said, raising his glass and giving me an ironic glance. His jacket shifted far enough to catch on the handle of the revolver, and he quickly pulled it back into place.

I tasted the Scotch. My whole body shuddered.

'Thirsty, eh?' Alan took a gulp and grinned at both of us. He seemed almost half-crazy with relief.

He and Alan left the kitchen, and I poured the drink out into the sink. When I came back into the living room, the two of them were back in their old places, staring at the television.

Alan's pajama top had come all the way out of his trousers, and a bright, unhealthy flush covered his cheekbones. He was saying, 'We should go into the ghetto, set up storefront classrooms, really work with these people. You start with a pilot program and then you expand it until you have a couple of real classes going.'

For another thirty minutes, we stared at the screen. The family of the boy who had been killed in City Hall announced through a lawyer that they were praying for peace. A pale blue map indicated burned-out neighborhoods with little red flames and areas where gunfire had taken place with little black pistols. John refilled Alan's glass. His hair and necktie back in place, Jimbo declared that the worst of the rioting seemed to be over and that police had restored order to all but the most troubled neighborhoods. Fire fighters trained hoses on a long row of blazing shop fronts.

At ten past twelve, when Alan's head had begun to loll forward on his chest, the telephone rang again. John jumped up and then waved me off the couch. 'Go on, get it, he's checking in,' he said.

Alan raised his head and blinked.

'You said I should call,' a woman whispered. 'Well, I'm calling.'

'You have the wrong number,' I said.

'Is this Al Underhill's boy? You said I should call. He's back. I just saw him go into the living room.'

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

'Don't you remember?'

'Yes, Hannah, I remember,' I said.

'Maybe you don't want to do anything, it's such a terrible night—'

'Stay in the house and keep your lights off,' I said.

7

I came back into the living room and told Alan that I had to speak privately to John again. Before Alan had time to ask any questions, John was up on his feet and leading me into the kitchen. He went as far as the back door and then whirled to face me. 'What did he say? Does he want you to come now?'

'Hannah Belknap called to tell me that she saw someone in the house next door.'

'What is he doing there now?'

'He might be taking advantage of the chaos to move his notes again.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Maybe we didn't look hard enough,' I said. 'They have to be there—it's the safest place.'

John pursed his lips. 'He might have decided to destroy them.'

This possibility had occurred to me the second before John spoke it. Then I realized that Hannah had seen Fontaine in his old living room. 'He's upstairs now,' I said. 'If we get down there fast enough, we might be able to catch him with them.'

John opened his mouth, making up his mind. His eyes were large and clear and unreadable. 'Let's go,' he said. 'It's even better.'

I thought it was better, too, but for different reasons. If we could catch Fontaine with his records, we had a better chance of bringing him to justice than if we simply met him on an empty street. All we had to do was get down to South Seventh Street before Fontaine got away or burned the records of his secret life. My next thought was that we actually had plenty of time—if Fontaine had returned to his old house on this night, it was probably to wait out the two hours before the meeting he had arranged.

Alan appeared in the kitchen door. 'What's going on? What was that phone call?'

'Alan, I'm sorry, but there's no time to explain,' John said. 'Tim and I have to go somewhere. We might have some good news for you.'

'Where are you going?'

'Sorry, but it's none of your business.' John pushed his way past the old man, who glanced at me and then took off after his son-in-law.

'I'll decide if it's my business or not,' Alan said, a little louder than before but still a long way from shouting.

They were standing in the middle of the living room, about two feet from each other. Alan jabbed his finger at John. 'Obviously, this mission of yours does concern me, if you say that you'll come back with good news. I'm coming along.'

John turned to me in total exasperation.

'There might be some danger,' I said.

'That settles it.' Alan grabbed his jacket from the couch and wrenched it on. 'I am not going to be left in the dark. That's that.'

'Alan—'

Alan walked to the front door and opened it.

Something happened to John's face—it was not just that he gave up on the spot, but all resistance left him. 'Fine,' he said. 'Come along. But you're going to sit in the backseat, and you're not going to do anything until we tell you to do it.'

Alan looked at him as if he'd just smelled something nasty, but he turned away and went outside without